


Iron Nation

by jaimelannisters



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 04:39:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1885422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimelannisters/pseuds/jaimelannisters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty years after the Starks are exiled from Westeros by Aerys Targaryen, the spark of rebellion threatens to ignite a war that could tear all Seven Kingdoms apart. </p><p>While to the North, the winds of winter grip the realm once more, as an enemy long thought dead rises from beyond the Wall...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Time For Wolves

**Author's Note:**

> So I haven’t written anything in a while and I’ve had this idea in my head for a long time, but have only just gathered my thoughts enough to form something even half coherent. 
> 
> After the end of season 4 and the continuous wait for TWoW, I, like so many others have decided to pass the time by trying my hand at fanfiction. The idea is a little ambitious and incredibly AU, but hopefully it'll work out...

**A TIME FOR WOLVES**

**I**

A cloak of grey and white fell about her shoulders to pool at the floor of her chair, and wolves wrought from silver pinned her dark hair back into a braid so unelaborate to possibly be called southron. Amongst the black and red of the dragons whom surrounded her, it was clear to the Great Hall that she did not belong. The people of King’s Landing had never extended any love towards her, that much was always clear; but now they regarded her with a loathing sharper than the edges of every sword in the room.

Lyanna Stark—for though her name had long been _Targaryen,_ nothing could truly strip the north from her—was not afraid.

She did not tremble under the wrath of dragons, as so many in the hall were now. Nor was she enraptured by the flames of wildfire that burned in the King’s eyes as he turned his gaze upon her.

For there was something far more frightening than a man who believed himself a dragon and sat upon a throne built of blood and iron.

A thick blanket of snow covered the city of King’s Landing for the first time in decades. The chill had crept up on the realm as quietly as the unceasing flurry of snow that currently fell outside, and Lyanna knew that nothing would be able to prevent the horrors that followed in it’s wake. The lanterns that lined the Great Hall had diminished to ash as the royal family entered, led by a gust of wind as cold as their own cruel hearts. 

Fire could not kill a dragon, but wolves were not afraid of the cold and Lyanna could not help but smile as the chill embraced her. Only a few days before, a flock of white ravens had flown forth from the citadel to herald the coming of the one thing that could unite all seven kingdoms in equal fear.

The room had held its’ breath as the royals took their seats at the head of the hall. Lyanna sat beside Rhaegar as she always had; clad in Northern colours with her skin of ivory and eyes of steely grey, she was the picture of the Starks of old, and for the first time in twenty years it felt as if the wolves had their claws in Westeros once more. She was six-and-thirty, and though her dark hair was now streaked with silver and her face lined with age, she still retained an essence of the former beauty that had almost torn the realm apart.

It had been two decades since the Starks of the North were banished from the realm to spend the rest of their days in exile—stripped of every title, every piece of land, and every vassal that was once loyal to them. For twenty years, only the history books spoke of the Northern Lords. _But the North remembers, Dragons, and no fire of yours will ever burn hot enough to hinder the coming Night._

Lyanna still remembered the moment the rebellion ended. In the hall where she sat now, the North fell, and House Targaryen reassured their power over the realm for years to come. Upon hearing of her apparent kidnapping at the hands of Rhaegar Targaryen, her brother and father rode immediately for the capital. Brandon, usually so wild and unpredictable, had known to keep his mouth shut so their father could treat with the king. Rickard Stark had always been a sensible man and his demands had been nothing less than reasonable. He asked only for his daughter to be returned to him, and for Prince Rhaegar to be disciplined befittingly for the folly of it all. 

According to the rumours that had scattered throughout Westeros, Rhaegar had stolen her against her will and trapped her in a tower, deep in the mountains of Dorne, out of her reach of anyone who meant to take her back. It hurt Lyanna to think that her own father had been so quick to believe the disgusting lies, when the truth had been so far from it.

_I hadn’t meant for it to go so far, but I did not belong with Robert Baratheon, father, any more than I belong here, amidst dragons and serpents and roses._

And the King—the _Mad_ King—with his perverse sense of pleasure and no regard for justice or mercy, had bared his fangs and smiled. _“Burn them.”_

The words had resonated through the hall in a deafening wave, but no one had done anything more than gasp and watch, suspended in horror as the Knights of the Kingsguard bound the wolves’ hands behind their backs and knocked them to the ground. _They were unarmed and guilty of no crime but loving their family, and you meant to let them die for it._

Lyanna cast her grey eyes over the Knights who were present in the hall now, and wondered whether they would have done the same. Honour bound though they were to obey their king, the Gods could never forgive coldblooded murder.

Yet who was she to talk of honour, after all. She had run off with a married man while betrothed to another—one whom was ready to start a war in her name if that’s what it took to get her back. _If you truly believe Robert rebelled because of love, then you are still as naïve as the girl whose head was filled with dreams and songs._

In truth she’d been in King’s Landing at the time, albeit hidden away until the time came for Rhaegar to reveal his intention of marrying her; _or so he said._ As soon as she’d heard what was happening, she’d burst into the Great Hall and—with little concern for her own life and the consequences such an action could bring about—had thrown herself between her brother and father, and the dragon who wished to cause them harm.

She couldn’t remember much of what happened next, but that she’d been vaguely aware of Rhaegar warning her to stop, and the way the King’s eyes had lit up as they settled on her instead. There was a hunger in his violet depths— _so unlike Rhaegar’s—_ as if he was sizing her up, like some sort of prey waiting to be devoured. And then her Prince too, stepped in front of her and ordered his father to reconsider this madness.

Lyanna was never sure what it was that made the King change his mind, perhaps some last trace of humanity, a sudden sense of mercy—though most likely it was at the word of the spider who so loved to whisper in his ear. Nevertheless, the next thing she knew, Aerys was heeding his son’s advice and choosing to exile the Stark’s by charge of treason in their assistance to rebel against the crown. Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn were pardoned for their crimes and all at once the rebellion was over before it had even had a chance to begin. _Along with the hope of a kingdom not governed under the tyrannical rule of dragons._

Lyanna too had been pardoned at Rhaegar’s insistence and he took her as his second wife in order for the child that grew in her womb not to be bastardised. His first wife, Elia, had barely survived the birth of their second child, Aegon—everyone knew she could not suffer a third. _You wanted a Visenya to complete your song; I gave you one and lost a child in the process, yet I still could not keep you happy for long._

A maniacal laugh that had so often sent a shiver down her spine broke her from her reverie, and at once Lyanna was back to the present. She inclined her head to look at the throne in which the Dragon king sat. Though in truth, he looked no more a dragon up there than a frail old man who refused to give in to death’s lure. Anyone could see that the burden of the crown weighed heavy upon his crooked shoulders—even the chair itself seemed to deny his right to sit there any longer. Stitches ran up the length of his sleeves where the iron swords had sliced through to the papery-thin flesh underneath. At sixty years of age he was feeble and gaunt, his skin a permanent wan colour and dotted with an array of purple liver-spots. The realm had stopped anticipating when he’d finally pass years ago. _Old age is no suitable death for a dragon. He is like to outlive us all._ If they were lucky it would be the chair that rid them of him in the end. 

Though in truth he was now no more than a figure-head to a thousand year old dynasty. The real power in this game of thrones fell to those of the sharpest minds and the coldest hearts.

It was Rhaegar who the realm looked to for aid now.

“The city’s poorest parts cannot withstand this coming winter, Your Grace.” The man before them was tattered and filthy, with but a few threadbare rags to cover him. Lyanna had no doubt he derived from Flea Bottom. “The autumn has been wet, and the rain has flooded our houses. Unless we’re given help soon, few of us will have any shelter to protect us from the cold.”

His expression remained piteous, but his tone laid blame to the city’s current lack of patronage, and he could bet himself lucky that the King did not take note of the insult. He would not be as forgiving as the rest of them.

“We are aware of your conditions, but I’m afraid there have been other matters that the crown must needs attend to. The well-being of a few Flea Bottom residents has never been paramount next to the needs of the realm.” Rhaegar’s tone was even, though his lilac eyes were detached and glazed over, as if his mind lay elsewhere. Lyanna found it was rare these days, to have his attention focused solely on the present.

The petitioners face turned to a mask of fury. “And are we not part of the realm, m’lord? Do we not deserve as much consideration as the rest of ya’?”

A wave of protests rang out over the hall—few in agreement, but most in outrage that a mere commoner would talk to royalty in such a way. And no more so than the prince’s brother, Viserys.

“How dare you question your prince?” The younger Targaryen hissed. Lyanna almost rolled her eyes; he was all for family pride when it was someone else who threatened to taint it. “He is the heir to the kingdom and you will address him as such—“

“Brother, please. I’m sure he meant no offence by it.” Rhaegar’s words appeared calm, but there was a veiled threat etched into the lilac of his eyes, as he turned his gaze upon the smallfolk. _You fool; didn’t anyone ever tell you not to wake a sleeping dragon._

The peasant sunk into an ungainly bow, his large red nose practically touching the marble floor. “O-of course not, Your Grace. F-forgive me, I truly meant no offence.”

He cast a hurried glance to the man sitting the throne. Though the days when commonfolk and noblemen alike were burned for the pettiest of crimes, were far behind them, the king was still known for having a twisted sense of mercy. And if he wanted someone to burn, not even his son may be able to stop it.

“Please. Speak freely.” Rhaegar assured him with a gentle flicker of a smile.

The man swallowed noticeably, looking as if he wanted nothing more than to be out of the dragons’ line of vision. “It’s only that, well, I have a family, a child—a babe, really. Without supplies, I’m afraid we won’t last the rest of this year.”

The desperation was clear in his eyes.

“As I’ve said, the crown is more than aware of your situation, but…”

Lyanna leaned forwards in her ornate wooden chair. “If I might interrupt, Your Grace…”

The hall was rendered silent at the sound of their future queen’s voice. Rhaegar gave her an inquiring look but nodded just the same. “Of course.”

Lyanna surveyed the hall. “As you will by now already know, winter has returned to the realm once more, after a long and rewarding summer.” Her gentle voice carried effortlessly over the vast crowd. “I assure you now that the crown has everything in order to make sure you are well supplied with any provisions you may need. The autumn was filled with nourishing rainfall, and the harvest most fruitful; the Westerlands have produced enough crops to adequately source us throughout most of the season, have they not, good-daughter?”

The little rose appeared momentarily startled at having been addressed during the petitioning, let alone by Lyanna. For the most part, the princess consort spent these meetings situated quietly by Aegon’s side, preferring to let the elder’s attend to the matters at hand, while she played at whichever game the Tyrells were partaking in at the present time.

She quickly regained her composure and shot the crowd a dazzling smile. _No doubt the smallfolk and noblemen alike, cling to her every word._

“Indeed, Your Grace. In fact, my father wrote to me not a few days ago, assuring me that provisions are already on their way.” Her words were sweet and honeyed, but Lyanna could tell that there was little truth to them. _You are more intelligent than you look, Margaery Tyrell._

Either way, the crowd appeared to be placated, muttering words of thanks, while a few even applauded their little princess.

Rhaegar hushed the chatter with a raised hand. “There you see, you may all rest easy. As for your homes, we will commission the finest masons in the city to see to their conditions right away. Extra blankets will also be distributed in the coming week if needed. King’s Landing has endured every winter thus far, there is no reason we cannot endure the next.”

At that, the Silver Prince rose from his chair, the proceedings apparently over for the day. “For now, I’m afraid I must call a meeting of the Small Council. Dragons, if you’d be so kind as to meet me in the council chamber in twenty minutes.”

The crowd parted easily for them as they manoeuvred their way towards the doors of the Great Hall.

Rhaegar extended a hand for Lyanna’s arm as they began their descent to the council chamber. He inclined his head towards hers, his lips almost pressed against her ear as he spoke. “You’re wearing Stark colours.”

Lyanna nodded slowly. “I am.”

“May I ask why?”

“I thought it might be appropriate.” Lyanna smiled wryly. “It is winter after all.”

Her husband’s grip tightened ever so slightly around her arm. “That may be, though it didn’t bode well with my father.”

“I noticed.”

“Nor with the smallfolk.”

“Rhaegar,” Lyanna raised her eyebrows at him. “When has anything I’ve ever done boded well with the smallfolk? It’s been twenty years; if they do not love me by now, I considerably doubt they ever will.” _Yet their love for the Tyrell girl prevails to no end,_ she thought with reluctant bitterness. 

A small crease formed between Rhaegar’s brows as he considered it.

“Is that all?” Lyanna asked him.

“One more thing.” His eyes searched her face curiously. “Why did you convince them of our surety in resources?”

Lyanna faltered slightly, and the smile slipped from her face. “Winter is here, Rhaegar. The last thing you want the city knowing is that we’re unprepared for it.”

 

**II**

It had long been apparent that meetings of the small council rarely extended as far as the king himself, and were less an organised event, than an assembling of every member Rhaegar deemed trustworthy enough at the time. More oft than not though, it was the Targaryens themselves that attended the meetings, as Rhaegar’s mistrust meant he preferred to let his kin sit in on matters of court, rather than those with appointed positions on the small council. Though he’d been spared the worst of it, Lyanna’s husband had never truly been able to elude the Targaryen madness altogether.

Not that she faulted him for being weary. Half at court were only loyal to those who offered the most enticing rewards, and the other half were Lannister men, she was sure. Lyanna didn’t know which of the two were more dangerous.

While the Dragons’ (and their significant others) were not like to betray one another any time soon, they did seem to have a difficult time not arguing for long enough to discuss matters of any import.

Thus far the meeting had included fetching any remaining members to the Dragons’ Table, while Prince Viserys complained of everything that had caused him offence that day.  _“Whose idea was it to hold petitionings with the smallfolk, anyway?”_

At that the princess Daenerys had blushed furiously and lowered her head so as not to catch her brother’s eye. She had a gentle heart, far gentler than her nieces’ or good-sisters’. She cared far more for the smallfolk of the realm than her elder brother deemed wise or at all suitable for someone of her stature.

“ _We are dragons, sister,”_ Lyanna had once heard him lecture her. “ _It does not matter whether the commoners live or die, only that they bow to us.”_

Sooner or later everyone bowed to the dragons.

The Dragons’ Table spanned the majority of the Council Chamber; circular and with a width bridging twenty-five feet, Aerys had ordered for it’s creation some fifteen years previously. With the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen masterfully engraved into the onyx wood, and great chunks of ruby inlaid where the eyes should be, it was every bit as extravagant and grandiose as the family who sat around it.

Surrounding the table were twelve ornately carved wooden chairs, each with an engraving to match the piece on the table. One was raised noticeably higher than the others—reserved for the king should he ever decide to attend the council meetings—and which Rhaegar Targaryen currently occupied.

“The Greyjoy’s are growing unrestful,” Lord Jon Connington began. Rhaegar had appointed him acting Hand of the King on his father’s behalf while Tywin Lannister attended to matters at the Rock. It had been a unanimous decision by the small council that Aerys was no longer fit enough to make decisions regarding the governance of the realm, and Lyanna had not been one to disagree. She’d found his method of dealing justice always seemed to culminate with the same two words.

“Balon Greyjoy has been searching for a reason to rebel against the crown for years.” Connington continued. “Perhaps the winds of winter are all the excuse he needs.”

Rhaegar leaned back in his chair and waved a hand dismissively. “We know what he wants. If it comes to an uprising we will just have to bargain with him; we’ve done it once, we can do it again.”

The flippant response tasted bitter in Lyanna’s mouth. _Balon Greyjoy wants a crown and the north; you are not prepared to give him either._

“Forgive me, my Lord, but last time, the Ironborn only stood down out of fear of your father—considering what happened to the last noble family who threatened to defy him.” At this Lord Connington cast Lyanna a weary glance, which she ignored.  

“Lord Connington is right, Your Grace,” added Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. “And if the Ironborn _were_ planning to revolt, now would be the perfect time. They are used to fighting in harsh conditions, and no doubt the winds would be in their favour at this time. Not to mention how unprepared we are for a siege.”

“Unprepared?” It was Rhaegar’s sister Daenerys who spoke now. “But you told the petitioners—“

“I am aware of that, Dany, but it is nothing you need concern yourself with.”

Daenerys looked inclined to object, but quickly dropped it. While Rhaegar’s temper paled in comparison to Viserys’, it was wise not to rile him during council meetings; no doubt she’d press the subject later though.

“And besides,” Rhaegar addressed the Lord Commander once more, “you are talking battle strategy when there is no battle to be fought—and likely never will be. Detached though the Greyjoys are from the rest of the realm, they would not dare attack when they are so outnumbered.”

Ser Barristan too, appeared to disagree, though left the matter sated for now.

Rhaegar directed his attention back to Lord Connington. “Is that all, Jon?”

“I’m afraid not.” Connington singled out a roll of parchment from the pile before him and handed it to Rhaegar. “It seems the Iron Bank is rather persistent in its pursuit of unpaid debts.”

Lyanna tensed at the same time Rhaegar’s jaw involuntarily tightened; word from the Iron Bank was something no one wished to receive. A collective groan seemed to disperse around the table, as if each were in synchronised agreement.

The last twenty years had been peaceful there was no denying, but they had also been plentiful. The Dragons’ Table alone cost more than they had at hand, and though the Iron Bank had issued countless loans, the crown had been too slack to pay a lot of it back.

_We brokered peace with golden dragons, but now the cost is too high._ Rhaegar’s pride had stopped him from ever asking the Hand for additional fundings—though Lyanna did not blame him. The Lannisters had more gold under Casterly Rock than any other kingdom, but if they were to give Lord Tywin financial control over the realm, he would not be unlike to reach for something higher.

It was Aegon Targaryen’s voice that rose above the clamour. “How do you expect to pay back any debts when we don’t even have enough gold to feed the realm?”

Rhaegar ignored the slight from his son and instead turned to his Dornish good-daughter. “Arianne?”

She ceased fiddling with the hem of her silk gown and flicked her dark hair over her shoulder, sending a rich fragrance of flowers and spices in Lyanna’s direction. “If you wish to lay blame, Your Grace, then I’d begin with Lord Baelish. The Gods alone know how much gold he’s needlessly poured into his brothels.”

Arianne Martell—Viserys’ Dornish wife—had resumed the position of Mistress of Coin, while Lord Baelish attended to ‘personal matters’ at the fingers. Though Gods knew what he meant by that; no one had heard word from him in months it seemed. Rhaegar had been weary in allowing her the position at first, but it seemed the Dornish woman had a natural dexterity for persuasion. And not just that—though appointing her had not made large sums of money suddenly appear, her flair for obtaining secrets could rival even the Spider.

“Lord Baelish has been absent for months. It is your responsibility as Mistress of Coin to ensure our debts are being paid, is it not?” Rhaegar asked incredulously.

“That is true...” If the remark bothered her, it did not show. “And I assure you progress has been made.  But we cannot continue to borrow gold from the Tyrells and the Martells; they have their own kingdoms to run after all.”

Rhaegar leaned forward in his chair. “Then what do you suggest we do?”

Her eyes narrowed, as if in contemplation. “Perhaps take measures to prevent the king from indulging in needless trivialities, for a start. And re-open some of the trade markets with Essos—Gods know we’ll be needing extra supplies now that winter is here. Do this, Your Grace and perhaps the Iron Back won’t turn to some other…benefactor, for what they need.” With a flutter of her long lashes and a smile that could tempt even the most devout septon of breaking their faith, Arianne leant back content in her chair.

After a long moment, in which the entire room seemed to hold its breath, Rhaegar signalled to Lord Connington. “Send word to Lord Baelish at the Eyrie. Tell him the king requests his presence at court right away.” The prince rose to leave, seemingly finished with the proceedings for the day. “If that’s all, Ser Jon—“

“If I might have a moment of your time, Your Grace?”

The council cast their eyes over the speaker—the Master of Whispers. He held a look of burden about his powdered face, though Lyanna was quite sure it was false exaggeration. His voice was high and soft and well-suited to his council title, though something about it made Lyanna’s flesh crawl. _Never trust a man who deals with secrets and whispers._

Rhaegar reluctantly settled back into his chair and allowed Lord Varys to coo on. “I’d hoped a more suitable occasion would present itself for the deliverance of this most… _unsettling_ news, Your Grace, though I fear I am running out of time.” As if on cue, the eunuch’s eyes began to water and he quickly held a hand up to dab at them. Lyanna fought the urge to roll her own.

 “What is it, Lord Varys?”

“As always, it seems my little birds have proved to be most useful.” He extracted a slip of parchment from within his sleeve and handed it to the prince. “Thankfully, they were able to intercept this message before it reached its recipient.”

“And who might that’ve been?” Rhaegar asked, eyeing the letter sceptically.

The spider’s face grew solemn. “Once you’ve read it’s contents, Your Grace, I feel you’ll fear the same as I; that there is a spy within your midst. One whom reports to neither Lannister or Targaryen.” For a fleeting moment his deceitful eyes locked on Lyanna’s, and a shiver ran down her spine.

She inspected the parchment from her seat next to Rhaegar. The seal was unbroken but gave no inclination to whom the letter was written by, for no sigil marked it.

Rhaegar broke the seal and unrolled the parchment carefully, as though the paper itself could be laced with poison. All eyes were painstakingly fixed on his reaction.

But as his dark lilac eyes roved over the contents, all colour seemed to drain from her husband’s face, and for some reason Lyanna felt as if her blood was running cold.

“Well?” Viserys questioned franticly. “What does it say?”

Rhaegar had always been a quiet and reserved man, never one to raise his voice unless absolutely necessary. He found it far more effective to deal with matters diplomatically through peaceful discussions, and thus rarely found the need to. But he was still a dragon, and—though no one was like to admit it with the king still around—he was by far the most dangerous of them all.

And that was why fear seemed to grip Lyanna’s heart at his next words, and the dangerously quiet tone in which he uttered them.

_“Everyone who isn’t a Targaryen, leave now.”_

No one moved.

_“Get out!”_

There was a hurried scraping of chairs as those who weren’t dragons by birth fled from the room. Lyanna too, made to leave but Rhaegar caught her wrist before she could rise. “You can stay.”

And no one perceived the look of satisfaction on the Master of Whispers soft plump face as he left the room in a lavender aroma.

“Father?” Aegon probed carefully once the room had been cleared. “What is it?”

Wordlessly, and without casting her a glance, Rhaegar slid the parchment over to his wife. Lyanna took it with shaking hands.

There was a deafening pounding in her ears as she read over it, and she was only vaguely aware of her husband’s voice in the background. _No;_ Lyanna’s thoughts were disbelieving but it didn’t stop the wave of excitement that gripped her at the possibility that maybe— _just maybe—_ her eyes were not deceiving her. _It’s been so long…_

As Lyanna’s eyes reached the final line she felt the heat of every Targaryen’s gaze settle upon her; but for the first time in a very long time, she did not tremble under the threat of wakening a dragon’s wrath.

“…It seems that winter isn’t the only thing returning to Westeros at last.”

_The Wolves are coming home._


	2. The Lands of Always Summer

**THE LANDS OF ALWAYS SUMMER**

**III**

The smell of blood clung heavy in the air as the wolf pack feasted on their prey. The full moon overhead watched as together they stalked the animal through the dark pine forest, lighting the frost covered ground in stark incandescence as they pursued relentlessly their desire to devour its flesh.

The stag never stood a chance.

The grey brother howled at the moon in triumph and signaled for his pack to follow. The pretty sister and gentle brother trailed his bloodied paw prints in unison, their hunger relinquished from their meal. The reckless brother growled, baring his fangs at the trees and tearing loose bits of flesh from the carcass, until the grey brother—their leader—turned back and snapped his teeth at the lesser wolf; where he went the pack always followed.

The smaller sister, the little grey one, waited a moment more, observing the moon carefully with her dark golden eyes; she was waiting for the other wolf.

She never had to wait for long; the falling snow that blanketed the ground crunched under the weight of the lone wolf’s paws as he advanced from his place within the shadows. The beast loomed over her and the remains of the conquered animal, he was larger even than her grey brother, capable of being a pack leader though he never uttered a sound. His white fur was captured radiant under the clear night sky and his red eyes shone ominously as he surveyed the she-wolf. He smelled of death and ice.

With the tip of her nose she nudged the remaining meat from their kill over to her silent brother. _No, not brother; cousin. This wolf was her cousin._

As soon as she thought it, his crimson eyes turned a deep violet and pitch darkness fell around them, rendering her almost completely blind. She whimpered as her remaining instincts sharpened; the air froze before her and she felt a thousand pairs of eyes, more fearsome than a pack of wolves, stalking her movements. Something was coming.

Arya Stark awoke with the taste of blood in her mouth.

She bolted upright in her bed, gasping for air as she recollected her senses. She felt herself swaying as the wolves howled around her. _No, not wolves, it’s only the wind._ Her vision was hazed with lingering images of the previous night’s dream as she stared about her cabin.

She’d been dreaming of wolves again, and each time she found it harder to slip back into her own skin. Arya clenched her eyes tight, willing her mind back to the present.

“The little wolf awakes at last.”  

Sansa Stark sat in the corner of their small cabin room, carefully embroidering with a lazy elegance that Arya had never been able to master, much to her mother’s chagrin. During the years since her flowering, Arya’s twenty-year-old sister had grown so beautiful it almost hurt to look upon her. Her flaming auburn hair was meticulously pinned atop her head, with long silk tendrils tumbling down the length of her spine, whilst the orange shafts of sunlight that had slipped in through the small window danced across sharp cheekbones and her somehow still ivory-coloured skin. Despite a lifetime spent in the Free Cities, Sansa’s skin had been impervious to developing the bronzed darkening that the rest of the family now had. _She looks more of the North than any of us._

Sansa rose from her stall and walked towards Arya’s bed, her pale blue silks swirling about her slender feminine frame as she moved. Arya eyed the small blue sapphires blinking on the single ring she’d received as a gift from the eldest Tyrell boy in commemoration of their recent betrothal; ‘ _blue like your pretty Tully eyes’_ had been written on the soppy note attached. Willas Tyrell had never even seen Sansa’s eyes, so Arya thought the whole thing was rather ridiculous.

She herself had yet to receive anything from the Baratheon heir in heed of their own betrothal; not that she cared. She’d heard that Robert Baratheon was a fat, whoring drunkard, and she had no doubt his son was like to be the same. _Gifts are for silly girls who marry for love—and Sansa who still believes that such a thing exists._

“Are we there yet?” Arya asked her older sister blearily, as she perched on the edge of the cot. She was about to say home but caught herself just in time. _I am a wolf; I have no home._

“Father says we should reach Tarth by nightfall…” a light smile graced her lips as she spoke, but Sansa refused to meet her sister’s eyes.

Arya raised an eyebrow at the obvious apprehension that marred the elder Stark girl’s porcelain face. “But what?”

Sansa ceased fiddling with a loose bit of fabric on her gown and smoothed out her skirts.  “What if this doesn’t work, Arya?” This time she barely spoke above a whisper and cast her gaze hurriedly across the cabin, as if the damp walls of the ship might be listening to her every word. “What if there are Targaryen and Lannister armies waiting with swords drawn for us to arrive? They say the Spider is the master of secrets, but what if the dragons have little birds of their own and they’ve somehow found out where we’re headed? What will happen to us?”

“Nothing is guaranteed,” Arya admitted grimly, “but the Baratheon’s have been loyal friends to the Starks for years, Robert would never betray Uncle Ned.” _Though where was the fat Lord’s loyalty when his brother in all but blood was exiled from his home for a rebellion that_ he _started._

Sansa nodded her head slowly. “Valar Morgulis,” she mused, her cerulean depths glazing over with tears _._

“We are not dead yet, sister.” Arya responded to the Braavosi phrase.

Sansa repressed a small smile. “All men must die…and even kings are only men.” She picked up her discarded embroidery and resumed fashioning the outline of a green and gold rose.

Arya’s eyes darkened, her mind casting back to the previous night’s dream. “And even kings are not immune to the cold.”

**IV**

A week had passed since the Starks of the North set sail under cover of darkness from the port of Essos, their home for the past twenty-three years. _Not home,_ thought Eddard Stark; _Essos was our sand prison not our home._

Home lay in the distance, a looming mirage on the midday horizon. _We left as Great Wardens of the North, we return as exiles._ Two decades ago, after Rhaegar Targaryen had taken his sister Lyanna prisoner, and Robert Baratheon had launched a failed rebellion, the Starks had all been banished from Westeros by Aerys Targaryen. Benjen Stark, who had already made the decision to take the Black, was exempt, however even Catelyn, Brandon’s young Tully wife, was punished alongside them by association.

Since then she’d conceived five children by Brandon; Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran and Rickon. _Five babes yet they still do not make each other happy._

As if on cue, his brother’s wife entered the cabin in a wave of fury, the wet-rotted wooden door almost splitting from its hinges in the process. Catelyn Stark nee Tully, her flawless features which hadn’t seemed to age a day in twenty years, were now contorted in a beautiful rage as she descended upon her husband like a wolf upon a helpless sheep. “How _dare_ you do something this reckless and negligent without consulting the rest of us first. Do you have any idea of the potential danger that your actions have put us in; that the other houses have been put in?”

Her long auburn hair, all tangled and wild, seemed to spark in the wake of her unrelenting wrath. It was in these moments that Ned admired her the most, for it was this seething, unconstrained and unafraid woman that he had fallen in love with over twenty years previously. He felt no shame for thinking this now, nor for the way his blood ran hot as he stared in awe upon her spectacle.

If Brandon was intimidated by her display of rage it did not show. The wild wolf leapt from his chair, his grey eyes as stormy as his own volatile temperament. “Do not lecture me with the concerns of the other houses, _wife._ If any of them thought for a second that they might be at risk, they would sacrifice us all in the blink of an eye to preserve their own pathetic skins.”

“And do you presume for a minute that that excuses your own selfish actions, _husband_?” Catelyn countered, taking a firm step towards him. “Should this go awry, the children, who have never even set foot in Westeros, will have their throats cut before they’re ever in reach of their true home.”

“Don’t you bring my children into this— “Brandon thundered.

“ _Our_ children. Or have you forgotten how I endured the births of every one of your heirs single-handedly whilst you drank yourself into a stupor in every brothel in Essos!”

Eddard was about to intervene when Rickard—their usually reserved and ageing father, and the presiding head of the Stark dynasty—rose above the clamor. “ _Enough!”_ he bellowed, bringing his fist down with a deafening crash on the round wooden table.

Silence fell but for the sound of the waves above deck and the faint din of the crew. For a moment Brandon appeared as if he might say something, but thought better of it and threw himself back down into his chair in a brooding noiseless fury. Catelyn too obeyed his orders and took up a seat at the round table opposite Ned; she refused to meet his eye.

Rickard reached across the table for the pitcher of wine and poured each of them a cup, with the careful measured motions of a man who had learnt to be patient. “Thank you”, he said as he regained his chair, “now would someone like to explain what exactly has been done.”

All eyes turned to Brandon who sneered and leant back in his seat unconcernedly. “I merely wanted to surprise the future queen of our forthcoming arrival. It is the least I could do for my dearest sister; our _lovely Lyanna,”_ he smiled grimly, his eyes darkening. “Why, it would surely be rude not to let her know after everything she’s done to help us these past twenty years. She always was so generous.”

“Brandon, don’t _”,_ Eddard warned. “It’s not right to speak so ill of her, she’s been more a prisoner in the capital than we have across the Narrow Sea.”

“She’s not _dead_ , Ned,” Brandon spat, his words filled with the acerbic of venom. “I’ll speak of her how I wish; she’s a whore and a traitor and no sister of mine _._ ”

Eddard flinched, shocked to the core at the brutality of his older brother’s words. He’d always known that time and helplessness had made him grow resentful of their little sister, but he’d never believed he’d become so hateful. After all, Lyanna had saved Brandon and their father from a slow and wicked death. _And as a result doomed them to a fate far worse._

_No! I must not think that of her, it isn’t right._ He looked to his father for aid against Brandon, but he gave none, also refusing to meet his son’s gaze.

_Two decades in Essos yet your hearts are as cold and unforgiving as the land of our birth._ Though he’d never been one for drinking unlike Brandon, Eddard now reached for the glass his father had poured and downed it in one. The red Tyroshi poison scorched his throat as he drank and he found himself longing, not for the first time, for the comforting taste of mead and winter and _home._

The flames had subsided from Catelyn’s eyes as she spoke now and her voice once more turned from steel to smooth velvet. “We have received word from Robert Baratheon.” Ned fought the sudden urge to reach out for her hand; he doubted very that the change of topic was for his benefit but felt a surge of gratitude for the red-haired woman all the same. “He has agreed to our terms and says he plans on holding a war council with his brothers and bannermen. When they have come to an arrangement word will be sent to Highgarden and the Eyrie.”

Eddard smiled in contempt. _You mean when Robert has forced them into an impossible war they have no hope of winning, when Stannis has led them to accept their own inferiority in the face of his strategic genius, and when Renly has charmed them into believing that joining the cause was of their own free will._

 “This is good,” Rickard said, slowly running a hand over his white beard as he considered Catelyn’s words. He turned his eyes to Ned. “And what of Lord Karstark, is he ready to rally the North?”

“He is already calling the banners,” Ned supplied, “and Edmure Tully promises to do so once we arrive at Storm’s End. The final pieces are falling into place.”

“Not _every_ piece.” Catelyn bit her lower lip. “Balon Greyjoy is still refusing to bargain with us. If we cannot convince him to join us, then who knows what the Ironborn will do.”

 “Perhaps if we compromise with him— “Ned began with caution.

“Compromise?” Brandon asked incredulously. “We already know exactly what the Ironborn scum want. They want every house in the kingdom to bow before their beloved drowned Gods, and to take the Northern crown for themselves. There will be no compromising with the Greyjoys.”

“So be it,” Rickard waved a dismissive hand. “Let them dabble in their pointless games, gods know they don’t stand a chance in seven hells fighting this battle on their own.”

Catelyn had noticeably tensed at his words and for the first time cast a doubtful sideways glance at Ned. _The Gods also know we have more than enough enemies in Westeros already. Is it really wise to estrange ourselves from the commanders of the seas?_

_So be it._

**V**

“It seems you’ll marry the Storm Princess after all, brother.”

Robb Stark’s sword, pointed at the sky in preparation for battle just moments before, fell to the wooden deck with a _clank_. He whirled around to stare at his younger brother, who was leaning casually on the railing with a boyish grin on his face.

“And how have you managed to come by this information?” Robb asked, retrieving the fallen practice sword.

Bran’s grin widened as he pulled out a ripe peach from his pocket and bit into it. “Climbing has its benefits you know… especially when you’re trying to read letters over peoples’ shoulders.”

Robb laughed and tousled the younger boy’s hair. “All this climbing’s going to get you into trouble one day.”

“Perhaps,” Bran shrugged and crossed his arms, a crooked grin on his face still. “But right now you ought to be thanking me. I just found out that you’re going to marry one of the most beautiful women in all of the seven kingdoms; Baratheon clearly doesn’t think you’re too bad if he’s accepted the proposal.”

Robb’s face reddened. It was true that Myrcella Baratheon’s beauty was renowned; tales of it could be heard even in the Free Cities, though Robb had yet to behold it for himself.

“Congratulations, Robb,” his sister Arya said crossing over to them with Sansa in tow. “The Stark heir will marry the Storm Princess; in exchange I get the absolute pleasure— “She said this with more than a trace of indignation. “—of being wedded and bedded by Gendry Baratheon. Do you suppose her Uncle’s will watch when you do it, Robb, everyone knows how protective they are of the little Princess.” Bran sniggered at his sister’s teasing.

For the second time, Robb felt his cheeks and neck grow furiously hot. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Arya,” he objected, an uncomfortable laugh of protest forming at the top of his throat.

She shrugged bemused. “I wouldn’t be surprised; this is Westeros remember, where cousins fuck and siblings wed each other.”

“Arya!” Sansa baulked, horrified. Robb and Bran laughed. They didn’t have to live there to know that the dragons had relied on incest for thousands of years in order to keep their line _pure._

“Shut up, you know it’s true,” Arya continued. “As I was saying, Sansa will marry the Tyrell heir in secret until everything surfaces, and Bran will do the same with the Martell girl—Joanna or whatever her name is—and Rickon will be sent to the Eyrie as the Arryn’s ward.”

This was exactly what Robb had been so afraid of. Though there were still many parts of this game that he didn’t understand, he’d discerned enough to know that the Tyrell’s and the Martell’s were very dangerous players. The princesses Margaery and Arianne were married to two of the young Targaryens and if they were speaking the truth in wanting to support the Stark’s cause, they were putting both of them in grave danger as long as they still resided in the capital. This was rebellion, this was war, this was _treason._

_And everyone knows what happened to the last family that committed treason against the crown._

Even the Baratheons and the Arryns, who had been close allies to the Starks for years, could not be fully trusted now. These were dangerous times for wolves, especially in the South, and though his Uncle Ned was once like a brother to Robert Baratheon, a lot could change in twenty years, who was to say that they weren’t being deceived and that this whole treaty may actually be just a ruse by the Dragons, intending to have their heads on pikes around the capital for the whole realm to see.

_The wolves must stick together._ When they were children, their Uncle Eddard had told them that _when the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives._ Robb thought of that phrase now more than ever, when he and his siblings were about to be torn apart in an unfamiliar place full of dragons and lions and serpents. As a young boy he’d often dreamed of the day they’d set sail for Westeros to reclaim their homeland and kill every last Targaryen who’d taken it from them. He’d dreamed of glory and victory and rescuing an aunt he’d never known. But more than that he’d dreamed of a huge castle covered in snow, and great weirwood trees with the faces of the old gods. _Winterfell._ Something grew in the pit of his stomach at the thought, something that made him dizzy and feverish. _Home._

The hand that gripped his wooden sparring sword trembled as he spoke now. “And thus we have our claws in almost every great house in the Seven Kingdoms.” Robb clenched his fist tighter as the quiver in his fingers threatened to drop the sword again.

“Look over there…” Sansa cried suddenly, and the others turned their gazes to where the eldest Stark girl pointed. Upon the horizon sat the island of Tarth; _The Sapphire Isle._ It was their first point of dock before they went on to Storm’s End, and the first time any of them had seen Westeros not depicted in paintings and books.

“We are almost home,” Sansa said quietly, a smile full of hope and excitement forming on her face; Robb couldn’t help but do the same.

_Winter is coming._

And this one would be long.

.


	3. The Dragon Queens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kind reviews, I really appreciate them!
> 
> For those who asked about Elia and Jon, I hope this chapter helps explain some things...

**THE DRAGON QUEENS**

**VI**

Sunlight poured in through the coloured glass windows, casting long shadows across the stone floor and illuminating the room in a sensual glow. Scantily clad women in luxurious Myrish silks sauntered around the common room of the brothel, flitting between clients in an aroma of exotic spices; _sweet and beautiful and skilled in every art of love_. Arianne would usually bask in the euphoric atmosphere of skin, sweat and sin that filled the air, but today this clandestine meeting was strictly for matters of the treasury.

The Mistress of Coin grinned devilishly from beneath the hood that shrouded her face, as she caught sight of the next girl to enter the room. Arianne watched in amusement as she twirled a soft brown curl around her finger and batted her lovely doe eyes at the eager patrons; the translucent green and gold silks that barely covered her slender frame fell to the floor to reveal ample breasts, and downy curls between her golden legs. _What would the prudish little rose think if she knew of this?_ Perhaps she’d bring her along one day, for some well needed sister bonding time, Arianne mused.

She turned her gaze to where a man with a heavy potbelly was laughing ostentatiously, and boasting to his friend beside him. She discerned why in an instant; the buxom beauty that laid across his lap was clearly of Dornish origins—or at least meant to appear so—with olive skin and thick black ringlets, and opulent jewels adorning her neck and wrists the only thing that covered any skin. Arianne overheard her own name being mentioned and the corner of her mouth turned up in an impish smile. _I’ll show you what it’s like to be with a real princess of Dorne, little man. Let us see if you have the calibre to pleasure me as well as you claim._

The huntress was denied her prey as a moment later the large oak double doors opened on the far side of the room to signal that she should enter. No one came to greet her and she found herself personally affronted at the slight. _What kind of man neglects to welcome the Mistress of Coin into his establishment, let alone a royal princess; Littlefinger ought to teach his employees the art of manners as well as lovemaking._

But then she remembered the reason she was paying a visit to the salacious establishment in the first place and hastily slipped through the doors. She shot Ser Arys—dressed in plain garb instead of the shimmering white armour that gesticulated royalty—an almost imperceptible sideways glance as he made to follow her through the doors, that warned him to stay put. Despite the fact she’d arranged the meeting herself and was more than capable of handling it without an overprotective knight trailing on her heels like a lost puppy, the devoted member of the Queensguard insisted upon accompanying her everywhere for safety.

Not that she minded at all, it was clear that he loved her madly, and she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t incongruously fond of him too.

“Well, my lady, what business of the Crown brings you so far from the red keep, today?” Arianne almost laughed as she faced the substitute that Littlefinger had left in charge whilst he resided at the Fingers. _He is merely a boy; younger than me. At least this will make my task easier._

She donned her loveliest smile as she greeted the young envoy, and took a seat across the desk from him, allowing her cloak to slither down her body slowly, and reveal the voluptuous, silk covered curves beneath. The boy remained apparently unperturbed by her display but Arianne was no troubled by it, he was clearly trying to remain professional in case word got back to his proprietor.

“I’m not here under the Crown’s orders,” she began, “though my business doubtlessly concerns it.” She batted her long dark lashes at the boy, instead playing off the role of the demure and innocent girl to her advantage.

“Please, my lady, go on,” he said, remaining unaffected by her charms. Arianne narrowed her eyes slightly in vexation. _He is accustomed to the ways of beautiful women, Littlefinger has clearly taught him well. Even so, he is still a man, and men are not immune to such allures._

“I must ask you to send word to Lord Baelish,” Arianne continued, rising from her chair, and circling the ebony desk so she stood behind the boy. This time it was unmistakeable the way his eyes hovered momentarily between her chest and hips as she walked. “I need to inquire urgently about news from the Iron Bank.”

“Concerning?” The envoy asked, taking measures to look only at her eyes as she leant back against the desk in front of him.

“Oh, nothing severe,” she smiled, leaning forward slightly so her long dark ringlets fell over her shoulder. “Lord Baelish will understand exactly what it’s in regards to.”

“I apologise, my lady, but Lord Baelish made it clear that whilst he is away from the capital, any matters regarding the Crown’s coin must be dealt with through me.”

Arianne laughed once and raised a perfectly curved eyebrow. “Is that so?” She leant forward further to rest a hand on his inner thigh. “Well, I’m sure you can make an exception for me...” she squeezed gently, “…after all I am the Mistress of Coin whilst Lord Baelish is away…” The boy never broke her gaze as her fingers grazed higher, though his brows furrowed slightly and a single bead of sweat slowly crawled its way down his temple.

“Like I said, my lady, matters pertaining to the Crown’s coin must be— “

Arianne’s hand reached between his legs and she squeezed—then suddenly stopped short. _A eunuch. So that’s why Littlefinger employed him, I suppose it certainly makes it easier to maintain an air of professionality._ The Dornish Princess withdrew her hand and pushed herself off the desk, pursing her lips in displeasure.

“Like I said— “

“I heard what you said,” she snapped, pacing back around the desk. “When will Lord Baelish return from the Fingers?”

“I’m afraid he isn’t coming back, my lady.”

“What do you mean he isn’t coming back?” She flicked her gaze around the room quickly, suddenly fearing watchful eyes in the walls. _Secrets and whispers. There are little birds everywhere._

The cunning envoy watched her, a light smile on his face. _You have tried to play me for a fool._ “Will that be all, my lady?”

Arianne clenched her teeth and forced her mouth into a pleasant smile, remaining ever poised despite the fact her heart was beginning to hammer in her chest. “Yes of course; and I thank you for your time, this truly is a fine establishment you’re running here.”

With that she retrieved her fallen cloak and spun on her heel, not looking back until she was out of the door and back onto the Street of Silk. Ser Arys, following close behind, immediately grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her into the shadows nearby. “Princess, what is it?”

“Not here,” she whispered, seized by thinly disguised panic, “I can’t discuss it here, it’s not safe.” She hurried up Aegon’s Hill with Ser Arys Oakheart in tow, her mind whirring with the impossibilities of what she’d just uncovered.

Littlefinger had lied, and Arianne was surprised by how much this fact shocked her. Her family had trusted him in this game so that they wouldn’t have to rely upon the Master of Whispers and she’d unknowingly let him manipulate her like any one of his pretty little birds. Arianne inwardly upbraided herself; she’d thought she’d been sharp, made herself indispensable, always one step ahead of the game like her Uncle Oberyn. _A foolish, wilful girl, playing at this game like a beginner; I am a traitorous wife to a dragon prince and now Dorne will never be spared should my part in this be uncovered._

She thought of what her father would say, and Oberyn with his mercurial temperament; just the notion of that shame was almost too much for her to bare, and Arianne had to slow to a halt, holding on to the wall for balance. “I just need a minute, Ser Arys.”

Sinking further into her own damning thoughts, Arianne didn’t notice when the Knight of the Queensguard neglected to respond; and she failed to see the viper strike. In a second she’d been seized by the wrist and dragged into a shadowed alcove, her capturer’s forearm pressed across her collarbones, pinning her to the stone wall. Before she even had time to scream the masked man put his forefinger up to his lips in a gesture that told her to be silent, and at the same time slipped something into her right hand.

“A message from Prince Oberyn,” the man said, in a deep, richly accented voice that implied he heralded from Dorne. “ _It has begun. Be ready, Princess.”_

With that the veiled man released her and evaporated into the chaotic clamour of king’s landing as swiftly as he’d appeared, leaving Arianne breathless and lost in his wake. She unclenched the fist of her right hand and found that the object was a small red vial.

Her uncle’s infamous poison; she remembered how he once told her that a single drop could kill a great elephant in a matter of seconds.

_I wonder what a whole vial could do to a legion of dragons._

**VII**

Though her features remained as composed as ever, Margaery Tyrell found she could not listen to a word the Sand Snakes were saying.

“Is everything okay, my lady?” Tyene asked, her sweet smile flashing a brilliant gold in the afternoon sunlight. The Dornish girl was achingly beautiful, her hair of spun gold braided into an intricate array of curls, and dressed in a clinging ivory gown with long sleeves of pale Myrish silk, Tyene Sand shined like the Maid herself. But today Margaery could not even find it within herself to be envious.

“Forgive me, ladies,” Margaery said, doing her best to mirror the unburdened smile Tyene carried, “my thoughts seem to be running away with themselves today.”

“Who can blame you, it is your husband’s name-day celebration tomorrow,” Nymeria replied, idly fiddling with the end of her long braid.

“Yes, of course,” she agreed, though in truth Margaery had almost forgotten. “That must be it.”

The viper’s daughter smiled, revealing her daggered fangs. _She doesn’t believe me. Do they know?_ Worry threatened to erode Margaery’s hard exterior. Having the Sand Snakes as part of the Queensguard had proved to be both beneficial and perilous; as treacherous as Margaery feared them to be, they did have an almost unrivalled flare for obtaining secrets, however their razor-sharps stares seemed to pierce through any lies, much to her dismay.

“It seems the gardens of the Red Keep are the only place I can find a little peace and quiet around here, for the sounds of our wondrous cousin and Prince Viserys that fill these halls have been keeping me awake _all night._ I do so love these gardens; they remind me somewhat of the Water Gardens— “

Margaery stopped listening, reeling from the bite the Volantese girl had just administered. The whispers amidst the Red Keep that she had neglected to share her husband’s bed the past week were all true. She’d insisted it was just a minor sickness that kept them apart—which in part it was, by now she’d heard of the letter Lyanna had received from the wolves, and the thought seized her with nausea. It felt like everything was happening too quickly.

Of course, she now understood the real reason her body had been taken so ill all of a sudden and had to fight the urge not to let her hand fly to her stomach.

Before Nymeria could spit anymore venom, the eldest Sand Snake slinked into the garden to join them. Obara Sand towered beside the ivy-ridden marble pillars of the veranda; though she’d never attained the gifts of her younger cousins, Margaery supposed she could be considered attractive in some ways. The vibrant orange glow of the midday sun washed over her in a blinding wave, unfurling across the gleaming copper scales of her armour and painting her in brilliant golden hues. _If Tyene is the Maiden, Obara is certainly the Warrior._

Obara’s close-set eyes were fixed upon her sisters as she strode past Margaery’s guards and beneath the veranda, her gold cloak billowing behind her.

Margaery smiled kindly at her and gestured towards the plate of lemon cakes in the middle of the table. “Please, join us, Nymeria was just about to tell me of your adventures in the Water Gardens of Sunspear.” Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the aforesaid girl’s dark eyes flick towards her. _Serpents may bite, but roses have thorns too._

“Thank you, Princess, but I’m merely here to inform my sisters that Arianne has returned and wishes to speak with them later.”

The other two Sand Snakes grew silent and still at this, their gazes upon their sister unceasing. _Like vipers ready to spring._

“Everything is well, I trust.” Margaery enquired slowly, her own eyes narrowing slightly. _What is my delightful good-sister up to, today I wonder?_

“Yes, my lady. Everything is fine.” With one last meaningful glance at her sisters, Obara spun on her heel and marched back through the gardens.

Before Margaery could question what had just happened, Tyene clapped her slender hands together and signaled for a serving maid to bring a fresh teapot. “I suppose we should discuss Margaery’s plans now…” the Tyrell girl froze momentarily, expecting her hidden truth to be laid bare, “…for Prince Aegon’s name-day tomorrow.”

At the mention of his name, Margaery suddenly heard the euphonious sound of her husband’s laughter carry like a siren’s song through the gardens. She peered out of the veranda and found him walking along the path, his sister Rhaenys clinging to his arm, her head thrown back in mirth at whatever he’d just said. As he met his wife’s eyes he gave her a small nod, and Margaery was mortified at the sudden rush of warmth that coursed through her veins at the minor gesture.

Like his father, Aegon possessed all of the beauty of old Valyria, though not an ounce of the cruelty distinctive of his grandfather and uncle. Sunlight danced in his pretty lilac eyes and dotted his fair skin with summer freckles. The acute slant of his cheekbones was a striking mixture of the nobility of Rhaegar and the exotic beauty of Elia. Aegon Targaryen, the sixth of that name since the conquest—for such a man any woman in all of the seven kingdoms would happily give her life. _You have rendered me a ruinous creature; for you, I would give a thousand lives and one._

Except she couldn’t really, not while her family vied for cold thrones and golden crowns; when the dark void of winter finally shrouded the capital, it would come to light that they’d been on opposing sides of the battlefield all along. _The prince gave me his heart wholly and willingly, and I intend to crush it and discard it like it is nothing it at all._ The thought was so unbearable that Margaery felt tears sting her eyes.

Margaery had always accepted Aegon’s love as truth, one of the only truths that she could be certain of within the great lie that was King’s Landing. She had been a mere maid of six-and-ten when she first graced the halls of the Red Keep to meet her betrothed, and the prince had been two years older. She’d imagined a cold and forbidding creature, the reflection of his murderous grandfather, rather than his father. But the man she’d stood in awe of that day had offered her nothing but warmth and devotion the past seven years.

Her grandmother once told her that Tyrell girls were not meant for love; they were meant to rule and wear crowns atop their pretty heads _. And bare children so that they might continue our reign._

The heat dissipated from Margaery’s body as quickly as it had come, and she forced herself to look away, reaching for her cup too hastily and almost sending it flying in the process.

“Yes, we’ve all been _dying_ to hear whether you’ll be wearing the red dress or the green, tomorrow” Nymeria added scathingly, lifting the rim of her own cup up to her full red lips. Though she spoke with honeyed sweetness, every word off her tongue dripped with caustic acid.

Margaery ignored the girl’s contempt. _You forget, Viper, that I’ve been playing this game for longer than you, and far better than you. I rule both the future king’s heart as well as holding sway in his council chambers, I am not someone you should cross lightly._ She heard the grating shuffle of armour from the entrance to the veranda as the Knight of Flowers, her brother and protector, shuffled uncomfortably. He didn’t take kindly to insults from the Dornish any better than she did.

Before she could even reply, the sickness that had taken hold of her that morning returned in a nauseating wave, and Margaery had no choice but to rise from her seat. “Excuse me— “she managed to utter before hurrying down the steps of the veranda and through the gardens of the Red Keep.

She never made it to the bathroom, however, and ended up vomiting the contents of her breakfast into a rose bush, dry heaving until her stomach was completely empty. She didn’t even have the heart to feel amused by the irony of it.

“I’ve heard in the first few weeks the sickness can be almost unbearable.” Margaery started at the sound of Tyene’s soft voice and whirled around, wiping her mouth modestly with the back of her sleeve.

She forced out her best attempt at a laugh. “It must’ve been something I ate last night,”

Tyene smiled shrewdly, “Of course, Princess.” She slipped a small bottle out of her lace sleeve and placed it in Margaery’s clammy hand, never breaking her gaze. “For in case the sickness gets too much for you.”

The colour of the liquid was unmistakable, even to Margaery’s hazy eyes. She recalled a time once, when her grandmother had administered it to one of her cousins in Highgarden, _back when we’d been young and foolish girls._

It was moon tea.

 

**VIII**

The light of dawn fast approached King’s Landing and Lyanna had not slept a wink. She waited all night in apprehension for her husband to return to their chambers, pacing the cool stone floor and incessantly wringing her hands. She’d briefly chosen to light a candle and fall to her knees by the bed, praying to the gods for providence just as she had when she’d been a young, naïve girl. _My gods have not heard me for years._

Rhaegar had been held back after dinner to discuss proceedings for Aegon’s name day on the morrow, and Lyanna had seized the opportunity to slip away and visit Elia.

The chambers of the Princess of Dorne were draped all in black, just as they had been for over ten years. Lyanna had always thought that amidst the overpowering fragrance of spiced incense, it smelled of death in the room, and the thought chilled her to the bone. The windows were shuttered and the only light visible shone from the few squandering candles that hadn’t entirely extinguished.

As she entered, Lyanna ignited a new set of candles and placed them around the bed where Elia Martell lay. The Dornish woman stirred from her slumber as she did so, and Lyanna knelt before her, quietly.

Neither woman said anything, they didn’t have to, Lyanna had wept her apologies to Elia a thousand times over, as if only she could repent her of the sins she’d committed, and the wrongs she’d cast over her. Now, Lyanna’s heart shattered for the ruined woman—once so resilient of will—that lay before her, a weak and frail shell of the once great queen to be. _You once threatened to outshine the very sun, how did we poison you so?_

Elia Martell had always had a delicate health, worsened so after she left Sunspear, and even more so by the births of her two children. No one could ever be sure of what the final tether was, only that ten years previously she’d become confined to her bed after a particularly sever bout of illness, and hadn’t recovered since. Rhaegar had requisitioned the greatest maesters from all seven kingdoms and beyond to remedy his first wife’s ailing, but they all came to the same consensus; that she could not be cured.

_Love is the greatest poison of all; for how can you cure a broken heart?_

Many had said at the time that she’d be lucky to see the coming of the new year, but whether it was out of fear of losing the alliance with Dorne, or the own love he bore for Elia, Rhaegar would not let her die.

 _But this is not living. What a cruel fate to force upon the woman you love._ Lyanna let the tears spill over onto her porcelain cheeks as she reached for Elia’s delicate hand. Elia smiled kindly at her, her dark eyes speaking a thousand words; mostly, that it was time, that this was what they’d been waiting for.

Lyanna didn’t stay for long, but she didn’t need to. Rhaegar had visited her every night since she’d fallen ill, to tell her stories or to sing her songs or else to just sit with her in comforting silence. Some days Aegon visited, or Rhaenys, or even Visenya.

Lyanna suspected in many ways that Visenya was closer with Elia than with her, but she didn’t mind. Elia was meant to be a mother, it came naturally to her; Lyanna had spent her girlhood playing in the dirt with her brother’s and thus never learnt the art of child-rearing as she should have.

 _She is her father’s daughter,_ Lyanna thought fondly, hot-blooded and wild. Then she thought of her long dark hair and golden skin and _haunting violet eyes._ Visenya Targaryen was very much her _mother’s_ daughter, also.

Lyanna was still pacing when Rhaegar finally entered their chambers in the early hours of the morning. He regarded her up and down skeptically as he unbuttoned his shirt—her eyes were bloodshot from the lack of sleep and crying, and her hair was tied back in an unruly braid. “Is everything okay?” he asked with a hint of a smirk.

He must have been in his cups to have returned so late, and for once Lyanna was grateful for that, tonight she’d need him at his most pliable. “Actually, there is something I need to discuss with you.”

“Could it not have waited until tomorrow?”

“No, it could not,” Lyanna almost snapped, her patience already wearing thin.

Rhaegar’s eyes hardened slightly. “Lyanna, if this is about the letter again— “

“It’s not about the letter.” Though that too had been burdening her every waking moment since the Spider presented it to the small council.

Rhaegar closed his eyes and exhaled, his inebriated thoughts slowly giving way to the usual shield of hostility. “Please, go on.”

“I think it’s time Visenya was married.”

The silver prince stopped short in the process of untying his breeches, and peered at his wife disbelievingly. “And that discussion could not wait until a more suitable hour— “

“To Ashara Dayne’s son. I think our Visenya should marry Ashara’s son.”

Rhaegar looked for a moment as though she had struck him. “The boy’s a bastard, Lyanna, sired by some lesser known lord; why in seven hells would you want to marry our noble daughter to him?”

“I’d rather a bastard than you bartering her off to the Greyjoy’s in return for their loyalty,” Lyanna bit back scornfully, trying desperately to still the rapid staccato of her heart.

“That was _never_ going to be an option, you know that.”

“We are running out of options, Rhaegar. Daenerys has Viserys and Rhaenys has Aegon, but Visenya is a woman grown and unmarried still, think how that looks.” If Lyanna had learned anything living amidst dragons all these years, it was that the Targaryens were a proud people—much like the Starks in some ways—and an unmarried daughter, especially one as beautiful as Visenya had grown to be, was a cause for concern amongst any great house.

A small crease formed between his fair eyebrows as he struggled with the internal battle going on in his thoughts. “Until now you’ve been as reluctant for her to marry as I have, why the sudden change of heart.”

 _Because there was only ever going to be one man she’d marry._ “It’s time, Rhaegar,” she stepped forward, reaching for her husband’s cool hand. “Ashara was Elia’s closest friend and confidante, this is what she would want for her.” Rhaegar noticeably tensed at the flippant use of his first wife’s name from her lips, but Lyanna continued. “You have the power to legitimise her son, and by doing so you’d be releasing her from the dishonor that has tainted her name since she bore that child.”

Lyanna could almost see the complex intricacies of his mind working behind his dancing lilac eyes. He’d already ruled out Quentyn, the Prince of Dorne as a potential husband for his youngest daughter, on the basis neither he or his father wanted any more Martell’s in the capital. With Arianne and the Sand Snakes, it was becoming increasingly perilous navigating the grass that hid the vipers. The Lannister boy had naturally been snubbed as no one wanted to willingly give Tywin’s house another stepping stone towards the throne, not to mention Lyanna had heard he was a malignant young boy, she had no doubt he took after his lady mother in that respect. The eldest Tyrell had been the closest choice for a long time, until Lyanna had suggested that due to his disability he may not even be able to sire an heir himself—Rhaegar was never going to risk that.

It hadn’t been difficult to sway Rhaegar in the past, he’d always doted on Visenya most out of all his children. _The dragon has three heads._ Rhaenys, Aegon and Visenya, the Valyrian conquerors born again, and Lyanna had given him the third to complete his song. Though she had never been an overly superstitious woman, she had come to understand that the prophecy to Rhaegar was more real than the room they were standing in now. He dreamed of a promised prince who would relinquish the world from darkness; _a winter that lasts a lifetime and shadowed demons in its depths._ With cautious skepticism and reluctance, Lyanna also acknowledged however, that with the Targaryens there had always been a fine line between prescience and madness.

For a long time, it seemed as if he’d never be granted another child. Elia was warned against baring anymore children after Aegon’s difficult birth, and her deteriorating health made any chance of that all but impossible. _So Rhaegar found another way._

It had been Elia’s idea in the end. When Lyanna was heavily pregnant she sought out the Dornish princess in fear; she told her of a recurrent nightmare she’d had, that the babe would be born a boy— _with hair as black as night and skin as white as snow, the shining visage of the North—_ and the king would burn her for it, _just like he meant to do to my father and brother._ In turn Elia sent word to Starfall, to her former lady-in-waiting who had just borne a little bastard girl.

 _Your wild brother,_ the princess had told her, a sad smile on her face, _he was irretrievably enchanted by Ashara’s beauty the moment he saw her at the Tourney, and she too worshipped him…_

Lyanna knew she could never repay the sacrifices both women had made for her— _for Rhaegar—_ but she hoped this marriage would be a start.

“Very well,” Rhaegar finally agreed. “Visenya will marry Jon Sands.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In regards to updates, it's currently exam season for me so whilst I'm hoping to update at least once a week it may not always be achievable at the moment. 
> 
> Please leave a review if you've enjoyed this chapter or if you have any questions/criticisms :)


	4. The Wolf and The Stag

**THE WOLF AND THE STAG**

**IX**

The heavens wept the day the wolf married the stag.

 

It was not a necessarily joyous occasion, though Ned had found that weddings so rarely were. The stone drums pounded as outside the waves relentlessly crashed against the rocks, and the sky roared with rage, inundating the earth in a wet barrage, and shaking the very ground with its tortured screams.

 

It was in this clangour that Gendry Baratheon draped a cloak of black and gold around Arya Stark’s shoulders, and spoke his vows to the Seven. Just as Robert had been in his youth, the Baratheon boy was handsome and tall, though leaner than his father, and muscled like a Maiden’s fantasy. His appearance, at least, left no doubt over the long line of Storm Kings from which he’d descended.

 

In Arya, Ned could not help but see Lyanna.

 

Now a maid of eight-and-ten, his niece was three years older than his sister had been when she got betrothed to Robert. She had somewhat grown into her long Stark face and skinny frame, her long dark hair had been brushed, curled and pinned back loosely for the occasion, and she shone in a dress of grey velvet, the Stark direwolf embedded into the silk white bodice with a thousand delicate stitchings. Her grey eyes remained stoic as she observed her new husband, and he met her stare with undaunted challenge in his own blue eyes.

 

Ned smiled to himself. _The storm is almost as formidable as the bride._

 

He only hoped Gendry would treat her more kindly than Robert ever did Lyanna. They were already heading a rebellion; they could not afford anymore Stark girls running away with dragon princes.

 

To the left of them, between the gilded statues of the Father and the Mother, stood Robb and Myrcella, the shining beacon of regality. The bride excelled in ivory silk and Myrish lace, her skirts decorated with the black and gold sigil of House Baratheon, a stag picked out in intricate seed pearls. His nephew looked near as grand as his bride, in a doublet of silvery grey, beneath a cloak of snowy white velvet emblazoned with his own vigilant direwolf. The smiles he and his new bride wore came easy to their youthful faces, clearly smitten with each other in contrast to the mutual distrust apparent between Gendry and Arya.

 

Robert, who had been slyly consuming swallows of Arbour Red since the ceremony began, tenderly removed the maiden’s cloak from Myrcella’s trembling shoulders now, and allowed for Robb to wrap her in the grey and white bride’s cloak, which he gently fastened at her throat.

 

_My nephew will protect Myrcella with his life, Robert, of that I have no doubt._ Eddard only prayed the same could be said for his son.

 

It could not have been a few hours past midday by the time the procession was led from the sept, but the ravage tempest that continued to rage on had darkened the sky outside Storm’s End so it appeared as if it was night. Robert made a toast to the lovely brides, his booming voice carrying across the hall like the tolling bells of King’s Landing, and then the feast began. Though Ned found that he could barely eat a thing, so he turned his gaze to the other guests situated in the great hall from his seat at the high table.

 

Renly Baratheon had stepped down from the dais and was now charming guests with an amiable smile and honeyed words. He had been a mere boy the last time Ned had seen him, but now, like his nephew, he was an almost perfect imitation of the young man Robert had once been. Though decidedly a more apt politician.

 

It had warmed his heart to first see Robert again after all these years; they had grown up together, fostered by Jon Arryn at the Vale; they had fought battles together, would have been brothers if he had married Lyanna as intended. This was a man he’d once meant to go to war with, and now would again if the Gods allowed it.

 

Robert had seized him in a bone-crunching embrace when they’d arrived the previous morning, looking him over and asserting that he had not changed at all. Ned found that the same could not be said for the Lord of Storm’s End. Though he still towered over everyone else, he’d gained the width to match his height, and his coarse black beard now flecked with grey had been grown out so as to hide his multiple chins. Ned had scarcely believed the stories he’d heard of his old friend back in Essos, but now the truth was laid bare before him; _you’ve gotten fat, Robert._

 

Now, the Storm Lord laughed, swinging his mug of ale in time to the pounding drums, and making eyes at the serving ladies who paraded past. Evidently his indulgent ways were not just a thing of whispers either. Eddard recalled that he’d once had a wife, a woman of a lesser house in the Reach with dark hair and pale skin; _a poor imitation of the woman he truly wanted._ She’d mothered his two children, Gendry and Myrcella, but had died of a sickness shortly after birthing their daughter.

 

Even still, Eddard very much doubted that time had lessened his feelings for his former betrothed. He saw only the beauty in Lyanna, and cursed Prince Rhaegar to the grave for taking her from him. His unrelenting hatred for the Targaryens was a madness in itself; Ned found it easy to overlook the fact they were cousins. _Blood relatives or not, Robert will find no hardship in dashing their heads against a wall._

 

To the left of Robert sat Stannis Baratheon, a hard and unforgiving man with a permanent look of severity on his stone set features. Like his brothers, he had the same dark blue eyes, but they lacked all of the warmth and benevolence as he too surveyed the hall, leaving his food untouched. Eddard noticed that his eyes kept flicking to where his niece sat with her new husband, gazing adoringly up at him with her pretty doe eyes. Stannis had never borne any children of his own, but just as for Renly, Myrcella meant a great deal to them.

 

Beside him, Ned’s own brother sat silently brooding despite the festivities. Unlike Robert, Brandon had lost all love for his sister the minute the Mad King exiled them; in his eyes Lyanna sided with the dragons that day and that was something he’d never be able to forgive. Sometimes Eddard thought he could still see the deep entrenched scar around his brother’s throat where the rope had cut into his skin before his release. _The North remembers._

 

Catelyn had ridden onwards with Sansa and Rickon towards Highgarden, whilst their father had gone with Bran to meet the Martell’s procession on their way to Storm’s End. Eddard and Brandon had stayed to oversee the weddings of Arya and Robb to the Baratheons and to prepare for the great war council that Robert would be holding the following week.

 

But be it their bronzed skin or ancient northern faces, it was clear to them and the speculative crowd that they did not belong there. _Robert may have been my brother once, but now we are practically strangers…_ Ned cast a glance over the jubilant guests once more.

 

_And these men and women are loyal to the Baratheons of Storm’s End only, not some foreign exiled Lords._

 

When the time for the bedding ceremony came, the great hall resonated with the howls of its people, more than eager to tear at the silk of the two young brides; but their lord fathers’ had already made the deviation from tradition known, and despite the disappointment, no one was willing to belie the threat in their eyes. Instead, Eddard watched as his nephew took Myrcella by the hand, assessing the distance they kept and the glances they exchanged; far more tender than any of the signals Brandon and Catelyn had given one another on their wedding day. Arya remained stoic and composed in Gendry’s presence as he led her away from their table, but Ned could see the irritation building in his wild niece. A light smile formed on his face, she would not make it an easy alliance for the Baratheon boy.

 

“Come, Starks,” Robert beckoned a moment later when the musicians had resumed playing. “We have much to discuss.”

**X**

Arya’s new husband slumped into a chair unceremoniously, sipping on a horn of ale and regarding his bride with curious cool blue eyes. The smile he had worn during the feast and dance had slipped, replaced with something Arya wasn’t quite sure of; she had only ever seen men look at her sister that way.

_Let him look,_ she thought, raising her chin slightly. She matched his stare with her own icy grey eyes, scrutinising every inch of his appearance. During their vows he had looked imposing, impressive even, but now that the effects of wine had dulled him slightly she saw that he was just a boy, no older than Robb. Though he had the black hair and blue eyes of his father—though thankfully not the chins—Arya could see from his expression and the way that his stoic features seemed to be set from stone that he was more like his uncle Stannis in some ways, a square jaw and stern eyes.

Arya understood why she had been made to marry this boy; her father and Robert Baratheon had once been like brothers, but over two decades had passed since, and it was vital that they realigned themselves. Even so, she was still bitter that Robb would inherit Winterfell with his pretty new wife, while she’d have to stay at Storm’s End.

As though he could sense her dissecting thoughts, Gendry shuffled uncomfortably in his seat and rose again, turning away from her slightly. Arya was almost amused; the boy had clearly been anxious to impress her.

“Wine?” he asked, offering her a goblet. She took it gratefully, pleased to have something to occupy her itching hands.

“You are not the woman I expected,” he said a moment later, surprising Arya. She had not thought that there would be so much talking.

“How so?” she responded, willing herself not shake her hair down in front of her body to cover her small boyish chest. _No doubt he was expecting someone more like Sansa._

Gendry transfixed his eyes over her once more. He had seen Edmure Tully more than once, and Lysa Arryn too, and he knew that this was not the face of river lords, but a Stark face. It was the face of winter, he thought, an ancient face carved into a thousand trees. _The face of vengeance._ But it was also a beautiful face, somewhere between imperial and exotic; the Braavosi sun had turned her skin a soft golden colour, and dusted freckles over her petite nose. His eyes hovered over her alluring red lips for a moment, and he smiled slightly. He wasn’t sure if it was the wine, or the essence of wildness beneath her stony mask, but he was incessantly pleased with his new bride.

He shrugged, satisfied to see a dusting of pink grace her cheeks. “So do you want to get this over with, or would you prefer to stand there admiring me some more, my Lady?”

“My name is Arya, and I would hardly call it admiring,” she bit through clenched teeth, and Gendry could barely hold back a laugh.

“Of course, My Lady.”

Arya glared and slammed her cup down on the table beside the bed, turning her back on the infuriating stag. “Have you ever done this before?” she asked, willing herself to sound confident.

“Does it matter?” he replied, a little defensively. She heard a rustle of clothing and when she turned back he’d lifted the shirt he wore over his head to reveal a lean torso, riddled with deep scars both fresh and old. A particularly bad trio of scars on his right shoulder caught her attention; they looked like claw marks.

Gendry followed her gaze and smiled as if in remembrance. “My father likes to take me on hunting trips with him,” he began. “A few years ago I wandered from the group, convinced I could singlehandedly kill the beast that had been slaughtering so many of the animals around these woods.” Gendry laughed. “Only as you can probably tell, it didn’t work out that way. If my father hadn’t charged through with his hunting knife when he did, then it would’ve taken my arm clean off.”

Arya was met with the sudden urge to reach up and press her fingers to the prominent lines that marred his skin. “What was it, the animal?”

Gendry smile dropped and he looked at her again in the same way he had earlier, the unfamiliar emotion that she couldn’t pinpoint. “A giant she-wolf.”

Before Arya could react, a commotion began somewhere down the hall from their chambers followed by an almighty shout of fury that seemed to shake the stone walls like thunder. Gendry grabbed his discarded shirt and to Arya’s surprise, took her by hand, dragging her out with him to see what had happened.

He led her to his father’s great solar, where the rest of the Starks and Baratheons were stood around a great table, a large map of Westeros laid out on the top. In the centre stood her father and Gendry’s, glowering at each other with venomous loathing, each trying to tower over the other in their fury. It became clear to Arya with little surprise that they were the source of the clamour.

Brandon Stark was a force to be riled with when enraged, but Robert Baratheon did not strike her as the kind of man to back down in the face of any man. Only her uncle Eddard took notice as she and Gendry entered the room, and then to her surprise, Robb and Myrcella followed close behind, their faces visibly flushed and the Baratheon girl clinging to her older brother’s arm like a lost pup.

Stannis stepped forward, diverting the attention back to the map on the table and away from the two warring patriarchs. “We do not have enough ships for an attack on the capital yet,” he insisted, his voice calm and composed in contrast to his older brother.

“It’s not as if we are attacking tomorrow for dinner, is it,” Robert scoffed mockingly, breaking his eyes from Brandon’s, whose trembling fists looked as if they were aching to strike at any moment. “By the time we march on King’s Landing, we will have the Tyrell’s ships and more than a hundred thousand men to attack the moment our ships do. The capital will be surrounded on every side, and the dragons will have nowhere to run.” He said the last part with a malevolent grin that sent a shiver down Arya’s spine.

Stannis pointed to some of the pieces scattered across the military map of the Seven Kingdoms. “Until then, we need to take the Westerlands, occupy the Neck and the Riverlands, join the Stormlands and the Reach, agree on a compromise with the Dornish and Arryn forces, should they come, and all of that with the Targaryens stepping on our heels. It’s only a matter of time before they realise they are being mutinied against, and then that they have enemies within their very walls. This _war_ , won’t be won in a week, nor a month, not even a year.”

Now Ned stepped forward, his solemn face an impenetrable mask of solid stone as he placed his hands down on the board, his fingers pressed into the carved pattern that was King’s Landing. “Neither did it take a year for the wounds to heal after the Mad King exiled our house from the Seven Kingdoms in a fit of paranoia, when we were absolved of our home and every bit of land and title to our name; and one of our own taken from us.” Both Brandon and Robert visibly flinched at the mention of her aunt Lyanna. “It may take years for us to prevail— _if_ we prevail—but we have learned to be patient. We are rebels now as well as exiles, as is your family and every other great house who means to march against the dragons with us; all we can do now is be prepared.”

The room fell silent, the truth of his words ringing clear. Arya could see the smoldering rage burning through her father and uncle, it was the same hunger for vengeance that gripped her to the core. She was a Stark in name and blood, a descendent of the great northern kings of old, despite growing up in the Free Cities. She had witnessed the pain and anguish of those she loved for almost two decades, it was a feeling mirrored in herself and she felt the weight of her uncle’s words with every fibre of her flesh. Once glance at her older brother told her he felt it too.

“What about the North?” Brandon growled a moment later, his grey eyes locked on Stannis on the opposing side of the wooden board. “You neglected to mention at what point in your little _strategy_ , we’ll occupy everything North of the Neck.” _At what point we’ll get our home back,_ Arya added silently.

“The Boltons occupy the North, now, under command of the Targaryens,” Stannis replied brusquely.

“So what do you mean to do about that? How many garrisons will you grant to ride north with my brother and I to take it back?” her father asked, his volatile temper beginning to rise once more.

“We won’t,” Robert replied, his harsh expression lacking all of its joviality from earlier in the day. “The North is a lost cause. I’m sorry, Ned, but we don’t need it and it’ll get us nowhere. The Boltons are loyal supporters to the dragons and staging a revolt against them this early in the game would only put us at a disadvantage.”

“But it’s _ours,_ ” Brandon roared, “We’ve waited over _twenty years_ to get it back. I don’t give a fuck what false Lords occupy its walls, Winterfell is mine by right and I mean to take it whether you’ll aid me or not, Baratheon.”

“You lost that right when the Mad King exiled you and your family, _Stark_. In truth, the lot of you aren’t even Lords, now. We stuck to our word, you’ve had your weddings. Your daughter has been wedded to my son, and one day she’ll be queen of all seven kingdoms when I’ve taken the Iron Throne from Aerys. Your son has taken a highborn daughter as his wife, one day they will rule Winterfell and the North side by side, but only when I’ve granted it back to you. That is more than you could ever have hoped for Brandon, and you’d do well to remember it. Now, I command you keep your end of the bargain and learn to follow orders; it’s the Red Keep we want, not some Northern wasteland that’s fallen hold to winter now anyway.”

Silence fell once more and Arya swore she could hear the sound of her own heart pounding in her chest as a terrifying realisation dawned on her. _It’s a crown he wants. The Baratheons aren’t helping us because of former loyalties, they’re using our name as an excuse to usurp the throne._ Beside her she could feel both her brother and Gendry tense, and she wondered how much of this her new husband had been aware of in marrying her.

Ned was the first to break from the quiet that stifled the room. He muttered something to Renly who stood nearby, and the Baratheon lord marched towards the young couples who still waited in apprehension by the door. He went to Myrcella first, ushering her out with an apologetic smile; she tugged on Robb’s sleeve gently and he followed, his eyes still glazed over in disbelief and shattered hopes. Before Arya could argue that she wanted to stay, Gendry had gripped her wrist hard—so unlike the tender clasp of hands on their descent there—and dragged her out the way they’d come, back along the torchlit corridors of Storm’s End.

_You lost that right when the Mad King exiled you and your family._ Robert’s words resounded in her head and a cold feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. “Let go of me!” she cried, wrenching her arm free from Gendry’s grasp when they were almost back to their chambers.

“Forgive me, my Lady, but I don’t understand what your _issue_ is,” Gendry asked, a spark of frustration flaring up in his bright eyes.

“My _issue?_ Your family lied to us, Gendry, they made us a promise twenty years ago that they’d help get us our home back, yet now they’ve gone back on it like it meant nothing.”

“My family promised you vengeance for Lyanna and retribution from the Mad King for what he did to you. As far as I’m concerned that’s what you’re getting and you could at least be a little grateful.”

“ _Grateful?”_ she scoffed, her hands clenching into tight fists. “I don’t want to be queen I want my _home_.”

“You heard my father, you’ll get it when he’s taken the crown from the Targaryens.”

For the second time that night Arya was filled with dread. “Do the other houses know of your family’s plan? The Tullys, the Tyrells, the Martells…. the Lannisters; they’re risking as much as you in doing this, but what are they getting out of it if you intend to seize the throne for yourselves?”

Her husband’s face paled, his mouth set into a grim line. “This is war, Stark. You do what you can for yourself because not everyone is going to survive it.”

He turned and marched into their chambers, leaving Arya alone in the dimly lit corridor. A shiver ran through her body and it suddenly struck her how little she really understood about this game, and how much of a stranger she was in this treacherous foreign land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay with this chapter, I've had a few exams this past week so haven't had a lot of time spare to work on this. I'm hoping to go back to weekly updates from now on though. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this chapter or have any questions, please leave a comment!


	5. Madness and Greatness

**MADNESS AND GREATNESS**

**XI**

The rose princess awoke to the sound of screaming.

Her own mother used to tell her that the wail of a child could wake any mother. But Margaery didn’t have a child and she had only dreamt the screams. Even still, she gingerly placed a hand on her lower stomach, and peered under the soft sheets, half expecting—and half hoping—to see a bright stain of red.

There was no blood, and she suddenly remembered the small vile of moontea that Tyene had given her, now concealed in the spine of a book. She’d meant to take it but hadn’t had the time alone to do so, she wasn’t sure how far into the pregnancy its effects worked for, nor how far along she was.

_Tonight_ , _I’ll do it tonight._

She wasn’t surprised to see that Aegon had already departed before she woke; it was his name-day, and in tradition he’d been taken out on a hunt that morning. It had been the first night in over a week that they’d shared their marital bed together, Margaery couldn’t keep the pretence of illness up any longer, nor could she suffer any more of the idle gossip the Dornish women of court so loved to torment her with. 

A knock at the door stirred her from her thoughts and her handmaiden entered. Her cousin, Elinor had previously been her handmaiden as well as closest confidante at court, but she had returned home to marry some months previously, leaving Margaery practically alone. She felt somewhat guilty that she hadn’t bothered to learn this one’s name, but it was so difficult to know who to trust these days.

Margaery pulled aside the velvet drapes of her bed and rose as the girl ran her a bath. She would need to be at her most seamless yet shrewd today, the picture of grace for Aegon’s nameday when all eyes would be on the capital. Perhaps the distraction of a banquet would be all she needed to deter her rapid thoughts from the worries that had plagued her mind the past few weeks.

After her bath, Margaery was dressed in a gown of the finest damask lilac silk, whilst her chestnut ringlets were gently pinned at the back of her head. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she asked of her handmaiden, enchanted by the way the sunlight danced across the pale silks.   

“Yes, my lady,” the young girl answered dutifully. “You are the jewel of the Prince’s eye; it is only right you outshine everyone else at court today.”

Margaery beamed, holding her head high as she surveyed her own appearance in the floor length mirror. She may have been a hopeless fool for flattery, but she couldn’t deny that she did look lovely.

_The jewel of the prince’s eye._ It was sometimes easy for her to forget the position she held at court, surrounded by so many dragons and powerful players.

“Oh, I almost forgot, my Lady,” exclaimed her handmaiden, she was a small girl, a year or two younger than Margaery, with petite hips and kind pale eyes. She extracted a letter and handed it to Margaery. “This came from Highgarden this morning.”

Margaery fought not to snatch it from the girl’s hands or let her apprehension show. “Thank you. Could I please have a moment alone to read this?”

The girl nodded her head and curtseyed as she was dismissed, and Margaery wandered over to the window seat, the letter shaking slightly in her trembling hands.

She unrolled the parchment and scanned her eyes over the contents.

_I am to marry._

Margaery’s breath caught in her throat at Willas’ first words, at the news she always knew would one day come, but had feared nonetheless. The words that meant her brother—her intelligent, gentle, caring brother—would also be dragged down into the ruinous current that was this game of thrones.

She hurriedly read over the rest of it, her heart hammering inside her chest. It was a simple and somewhat terse missive that he wished her well and hoped to see her soon, and though she hadn’t expected anything more she was filled with discontent, hoping to have learnt more about what was going on back at Highgarden. Her letters from her family seemed to be so few and far between nowadays.

He didn’t mention a name, of course, in case the communication had been intercepted, but he didn’t need to anyway; there was only ever going to be one woman in all Seven Kingdoms worthy of her brother’s hand in marriage. Margaery closed her first around the letter and breathed in deeply.

Her oldest brother was marrying a Stark, and she was carrying a Targaryen babe inside her womb. Though her father warned her that this rebellion would not be quick or easy, it suddenly felt as if she was waging war on the opposite side of the battlefield to the rest of her family.

When she finally opened the door to make her way down to the day’s proceedings, Loras was standing guard ready to accompany her, and her mind was immediately put at rest. As always he bore the whites of the Kingsguard uniform, the only spot of colour coming from the brooch wrought in soft yellow gold that clasped his cloak together; the rose of Highgarden nestled in a bed of delicate jade green leaves. It was almost identical to the fastener she wore to keep her hair pinned back.

“How is my lady on this fine morning?” he asked, a mischievous twinkle in his bright youthful eyes.

“Much better for seeing you, brother,” Margaery grinned, linking her arm through his. She thought about mentioning the letter but decided it could wait for a more suitable time.

The great hall was warm as they entered, as if the dragon skulls that adorned the walls had come to life to heat it with their fiery breath. For the first time in weeks, the sky outside was unusually clear and the sun shone through the high glass windows illuminating the guests in a sanguine glow. It seemed the snows had ceased across King’s Landing especially for Aegon’s nameday, and Margery couldn’t help but think back to a time when people were heralding him a Promised Prince; _the hero who would vanquish the darkness and the night that never ends._

Margaery was not a superstitious woman but she understood that Rhaegar had believed—and no doubt still believed—in the prophecy religiously. A prophecy that named his children the conquerors reborn. _It would be awfully convenient for him if that were true_ , Margaery thought snidely.

But the dragons of Valyria were still nothing but bones and ashes and skulls that ornamented walls, and the sudden change in weather was no doubt just that. _The Targaryens are merely human just like the rest of us…_

_Or beasts in human skin,_ she corrected herself as she noticed the king enter the throne room, the Master of whispers in tow as usual.

Margaery surveyed the throng of guests that had come to attend their future king’s nameday luncheon thus far. Prince Rhaegar had gathered together the lords and ladies of houses Celtigar, Massey and Rykker of the Crownlands to name a few, and a handful of Reach lords including Redwyne, but the absences were conspicuously clear—most notably Tyrell and Martell. The Lannisters had not made an appearance either, nor the Tullys, and envoys from the North were also missing, though they so rarely showed their faces in the south these days. But if Rhaegar had registered the slight from so many of his most powerful liege lords, he had yet to show it.

Prince Aegon too gave no indication of concern as he smiled at everyone in turn, looking every bit as extraordinary as his father, though admittedly a little more approachable. To his left and right stood his sisters, Rhaenys and Visenya, chatting warmly to their brother’s guests. As Margaery watched, she mused that the trio were the perfect mix of Dorne, Old Valyria and the North. Though their colourings opposed each other, Rhaegar’s presence in all of them was unmistakeable. Perhaps in Visenya a little less so, she had always been gifted too much of the wildness of her mother’s side.

Margaery suddenly found herself pondering about the child growing inside her, and her hand unconsciously drifted to her belly. _Perhaps a little boy; with gentle violet eyes and honey coloured curls…_

She was distracted from her thoughts a moment later as her brother sidled up to her once more whilst patrolling the room. He wasn’t supposed to talk whilst protecting his charge but Margaery felt they both needed the entertainment. 

“There’s nothing like a celebration to distract the court from how much we all loathe each other,” Margaery remarked to her white-cloaked brother. She raised her head and smiled to the guests as they continued to pour in.

Beside her Loras attempted to hide his laughter behind his hand—ever the composed knight. “Even Prince Viserys has risen to the occasion. I don’t believe I’ve seen him curse anyone once, yet.” He gestured to where the silver-haired prince was greeting the throng of visitors by the door, an overly fictitious grin plastered on his face that only served to make him look as if he was in pain.

“One might even think he’s enjoying himself,” Margaery continued, “strange given the banquet isn’t in his honour.” This time Loras couldn’t contain the bark of laughter that slipped out, until a moment later Margaery discretely dug an elbow into his side; the Crown Prince was approaching the two of them.

“Good-sister; Lord Tyrell,” he greeted them softly. Loras bowed his head and Margaery offered him a graceful curtsey. “May I steal you from your noble brother for a moment, my Lady.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Margaery replied, smiling despite the fact she was wracked with nerves. Though they were so like her husband’s, Rhaegar’s purple eyes had the power to either absolve you of all worries, or make you spill your innermost secrets and desires. It was a talent Margaery frequently wished she possessed, it would certainly make her life a little easier. “What can I help you with?” she asked, steeling herself as he took her by the arm and led her round the outskirts of the throne room.

“I was dismayed to hear that your family would not be attending the celebrations, I trust nothing is amiss at Highgarden?”

She thought of the letter she’d received from her brother that morning, and the tidings it pertained, and ignored the nerves bubbling in her stomach. “Nothing is amiss, My Lord, but the snows are treacherous around the Reach at this time, it would have been a perilous journey for my grandmother, and my Lord Father couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her on her own. They’ve sent their best regards to Aegon and the crown, though.”

“A pity, I should have liked to meet with your father again.”

“May I inquire as to why, My Lord?”

“Nothing remarkable, just matters of the treasury. It seems the Iron Bank has reached their limit in funding the throne.”

Margaery’s heart lurched. _Perhaps, I underestimated my Dornish good-sister’s abilities after all._ She fought not to let her surprise show. “The Tyrell’s will always endow the Targaryens with all they need, my Lord, you can trust me on that I promise you.”

“I am glad to hear that, Margaery.” Rhaegar halted them and turned to face her, her elbow firmly in his grip as he towered over her small frame. He lowered his voice to barely a whisper at his next words; “I would truly hate to think that you couldn’t be trusted.”

He left Margaery standing on her own in the middle of the hall, leaving a trail of ice in his wake that seemed to freeze her to the core. His words were likely just meant to shake her a bit, terror tactics intended to keep those at court loyal, but she couldn’t help but feel he’d just read her like an open book.

She decided to try and erase the encounter from her mind, and sought to find Aegon’s hand to steady her, he had always been her pillar of strength at court.

Once the guests and royals alike had all taken their seats at the tables, they broke their fast on honeycakes baked with almonds and sour cherries, autumn figs and venison, and a Dornish dish cooked with exotic spices and fiery peppers, with a light golden wine to wash it down. Musicians circled the tables, playing soft tunes on pipes and flutes, much to the delight of the guests. _Even when threatened by winter, they are still so easily pleased by trivial things._

The food was soon cleared away to make room for the giving of gifts. Usually such a thing was carried out with more grandiosity, especially when honouring the future king of the realm, but the exchange was a seemingly quiet affair that Margaery thought had nothing to do with what the king truly wanted, and everything to do with Rhaegar’s desire to preserve what little gold the crown had left which they didn’t owe to anyone else. Margaery peered across the table at Arianne, wondering if she’d yet faced the wrath of dragons in her apparent fatal mistakes as Mistress of Coin. Lord Celtigar presented the prince with a great sword of impressive make and splendour, whilst several ancient books which looked as if they were going to fall apart at any moment were brought forth by Lord Velaryon.

“I thank you dearly, my Lord; books are a most valuable possession, and I will treat them well,” Aegon announced respectfully, taking them from the man’s shaking hands with care.

The Targaryens themselves waited until last to present Aegon with his nameday gift, but it was every bit as lavish as expected. A glittering suit of armour of polished onyx with dark crimson mail, and a finely wrought three-headed dragon of their house adorned upon the breast plate, encrusted with huge rubies. The helm was no less extravagant, with horns of curved dragon wings and a visor carved into the resemblance of a dragon’s head where the wearer’s mouth was. For once Aegon looked lost for words as he beheld it. _Even my sweet modest husband is not immune to the attraction the image of dragons has on his family._

After an interval of light chatter amongst the guests, Prince Aegon rose, looking the picture of Targaryen greatness and donning a smile that would send even the most devout septa swooning. He thanked all the Lords and Ladies that had come to celebrate his nameday, promising them he would not forget such kind gestures. _They are his father’s words coming from his mouth,_ Margaery noted. _Rhaegar has moulded him into a great prince, and an ever greater man. A pity we won’t get to see what kind of king he’d become._

Margaery’s heart lurched with an unfamiliar surge of guilt and sorrow and she resolved to steel herself once more. _Too much time away from home has made me grow soft and piteous._

A moment later Lord Varys rose as well from his stool beside Aerys, smiling benevolently at the guests. “The King has given you a gift as well, my prince,” he announced. “They have come all the way from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai.”

A collective hushed whisper travelled along the table at the eunuch’s words, and Margaery noticed that even Prince Rhaegar looked disconcerted at the pronouncement. Though he’d been in charge of much of the planning for the day’s celebrations, evidently he hadn’t been aware of his own father’s contribution. The king merely smiled back at his son—or rather snarled, for the distortion his mouth made as his lips pulled back against sharp yellowed incisors could hardly be called a smile.

“Let us behold this mysterious gift,” Margaery called, when it became clear even Aegon was lost on how to respond.

King Aerys gestured towards two members of the kingsguard—Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Jaime Lannister—who stood sentinel by him, and the two lifted the great bronze chest and carried it down to Aegon’s place at the high table. The entirety of the hall seemed to hold its breath in anticipation, each straining their heads to get a closer look as Aegon unlatched the lid to view its contents.

Margaery couldn’t help but gasp as she beheld the three huge eggs that nestled in the crimson silk within. Each was different, patterned in such rich vibrant colours that at first she mistook for encrusted jewels. Aegon tentatively lifted the middle one from the chest and at closer glass she saw that they were not jewels but tiny scales which glistened like polished metal in the sunlight as he turned it over in his hands. The one he held was black as pitch, yet shimmered in sparks of scarlet as the light hit it. Another was a deep emerald, flecked with burnished bronze, whilst the last was pale cream, streaked with the purest gold.

“What are they?” Visenya asked, her hushed voice filled with the same childlike wonder mirrored in every onlookers’ eyes. Margaery suspected she already knew the answer.

“Dragon eggs,” Rhaegar answered, his expression a fixed mask of disbelief and astonishment, and wildfire burning in his lilac eyes. It truly was a magnificent gift; you didn’t have to be a Targaryen to realise such a prize was almost impossible to come by. Margaery didn’t want to imagine how they had come to be in the king’s possession in the first place.

Seven pairs of violet eyes were fixed intently on the precious eggs, shining with greed and desire and a sense of power that suddenly made it clear to Margaery how they were a dynasty that had reigned for over a thousand years. _They are conquerors, and the object in my husband’s hands is the symbol to their unchallenged triumph._

She thought again of Rhaegar’s words to her earlier and a shiver ran down her spine. _All the lords and ladies in this room are loyal to this house, I should not forget that so easily._ She had indeed grown too comfortable in the past years of unimpeded peace, but there was a rebellion rising and her role as Aegon’s wife would not guarantee her any safety, especially not when he had a sister of Targaryen blood to take as a wife in her place.

_I must do what is needed to protect my family,_ she thought as she made her decision. She was a dutiful wife, daughter and sister, everything a woman of her stature should be, but she would take anyone for a fool who presumed she had no mind for politics.

“It seems the gifts will never end, today,” Margaery said, rising from her seat to address the guests. The dragons snapped back to attention as all eyes flicked to her instead. She smiled, taking Aegon’s hand in her own as he peered up at her with his curious piercing gaze. “I was planning on waiting until this evening, but it seems as good a time as any to grant my own gift to my royal husband.”

A small crease formed between Aegon’s brows and he parted his lips slightly as if to question her, but she continued before he had a chance, making sure to place her free hand on her stomach conspicuously as she beamed at the watching guests. “The prince and I are expecting a babe!”

There was a moment of utter silence before the gathering crowd erupted into cheers and applause, praising the two of them and offering congratulations. Aegon practically jumped out of his seat and lifted her into a tight embrace, all notions of royal propriety forgotten as he planted a soft tear filled kiss on her lips. Margaery found more fire and life in his eyes now than she’d ever seen before, even more so that when he’d appraised the ancient dragon eggs just moments earlier. 

All thoughts of the small vial hidden within the spine of a book in her chambers had vanished completely, and the look of pure fury on her Dornish good-sister’s face was drowned out entirely by the elated crowd…

**XII**

The wrath of a dragon was a terrible thing.

Viserys wasted no time as he entered his chambers before he thrashed at the walls with his claws, his strangled screams thrown back by pillars of marble and stone.  “This is a _disgrace_! I will not let it happen!”

Unless he meant to tear the babe from her womb with his own hands, Arianne very much doubted there was anything her husband could do. The Dornish princess did not cower in the face of his rage, nor did her shoulders tremble; she stood with her head held high, lost in her own silent seething as she waited for it to surpass. While his outbursts were frequent and devastating, they rarely lasted long. Now the cogs and intricacies of this great plot were reworking themselves in Arianne’s mind, searching for the next step for her to take; this pregnancy changed _everything._

_Tyene should have forced the moontea down her pretty little throat._ Clearly she’d underestimated the Tyrell girl, though if it was her cunning or sheer stupidity she was unsure.

“Now that _whore_ is with child, and _you_ are not!” He made to seize her arm but she snatched it away, matching his maniacal glare with the iron in her own. _I am not your sister, my prince, do not presume to have your way with me like you do with her._

Arianne had lost count of the times she’d seen Daenerys bleeding from scratches and bites across her porcelain skin, and found smears of blood on white sheets after nights he spent with her. Her tiny body was almost permanently marred by a patchwork of purple bruises— _but only under her clothes, on hidden parts of her body he knew Rhaegar would never see._

Almost every member of the Kingsguard could recall how Aerys had once treated his wife in a similar way, how most days fair Queen Rhaella had looked as if she’d been ravaged by a horrifying beast. They were protectors, sworn to defend the king’s family from harm with their very lives if necessary, yet who were they to battle when one royal devastated another.

The fires of Dorne burned within Arianne, and she defied her husband with a rage that could only be matched by his own; but not even the flaming sun and spear could lastingly withstand a dragon.

“That Tyrell bitch carries the future king of the Seven Kingdoms and now the Targaryen line will be tainted with lesser blood. Aegon the Conqueror won the throne for the blood of my ancestors, for the royal and pure blood of Old Valyria that runs in _my_ veins, not for some half-bred son of a weak Westerosi whore!” The flames of rage burned hot within Arianne, and she fought not to bite back. _If Margaery Tyrell is a whore, what does that make me, last time I checked I do not possess Valyrian blood either._

She understood his own fury at the turn of events; Viserys Targaryen was now one step further away from inheriting a throne and a kingdom that would never be his. In some ways she could relate to his ire, once upon a time it was meant to be Arianne who would succeed her father for the throne of Sunspear, _but then they shipped me away to play their little game for them and now Quentyn will take what is rightfully mine._

Not for the first time she found herself envying the Tyrell girl. The gods had flipped a coin as they always did when a Targaryen was born, only whilst Aegon was a beacon of everything great about the ancient house, Viserys was blessed with far too much of the madness of his grandfather for Arianne’s liking. The look of fierce hunger and desire in his violet eyes as Aegon beheld the dragon eggs was undeniable, and the thought made her sick to her bones. _The madness that plagues this family is the worst kind of poison._

The storm surpassed as quickly as it had come, and Viserys fumed out of their chambers, _no doubt to find his sister._ Arianne would usually put up more of a fight, to prevent any of his anger tainting gentle Daenerys, but this time she had other matters to attend to. She needed to find her cousins immediately and send a letter to her uncle in Dorne, praying it would reach him before he left for Storm’s End.

Ser Jaime Lannister stood by the threshold of her door as she opened it, posted to accompany her wherever she went. Arianne didn’t say anything as he walked close beside her, she would have preferred it if it had been Ser Arys or Obara waiting for her. The sight of the Lannister knight always made her somewhat nervous, and that was no easy feat for someone as self-assured as Arianne was. In his dazzling white armour, golden hair falling effortlessly about his finely carved face, he looked the vision of some dashing knight from the old tales come to sweep her off her feet. She often wondered how closely he held to his vows, and in particular how much he knew of the intrigue and plots that weaved through the court behind the dragons’ backs.

His twin sister was married to her Uncle Oberyn making them relatives by law, and seeing as his father was Lord Tywin she doubted very much that he was ignorant to it all. Arianne’s lips twitched into a devilish smile as she regarded him. _Who do you really serve, golden lion?_

“Ser Jaime,” she said finally, linking her arm through his armour-clad one. “It’s so good of you to accompany me today, I feel we so rarely get to enjoy each other’s company.”

The knight’s face remained a stoic mask as he responded. “It’s always a pleasure, Princess.”

They walked arm in arm as they ascended the serpentine steps. “What tremendous news we’ve been blessed with today. It truly was an… _unexpected_ surprise,” Arianne continued casually, pressing herself into his side slightly.

“I am thrilled for the prince and princess, they will no doubt make excellent parents.” He spoke evenly, his voice smooth and warm, not a trace of disclosure in his words. 

Arianne narrowed her eyes, searching his face for some detection of falsehood. “Of course. Undoubtedly _.”_ She made little attempt to disguise the bitterness in her own voice, and she thought that maybe she saw a hint of a smirk at the corner of Ser Jaime’s mouth, though she couldn’t be sure. 

The knight didn’t say anything as she led him to the rookery, just gave her a single nod and resumed his post at the doorway as she entered. It was dark, yet she could see that Tyene was already waiting for her there. Her devious cousin always seemed to know what Arianne was going to do before she did herself.

“Give me the word, princess, and I’ll kill it I swear to you,” Tyene said, a fierce determination in her cruel eyes. It was in her silent rage that she looked most like her father, Arianne’s uncle with his mercurial temper.

“There will be no need for such measures, cousin, we must not do anything to risk our own positions during this time… not yet anyway,” she replied, correcting herself.

“What will you do?” Tyene asked.

Arianne’s mouth twisted into a cutting snarl. “I will do what I’ve always done; I will bow to the dragons’, I will smile at the dragons’ people, and at night I will warm the bed of my dragon husband.” _And in my dreams I will slaughter that dragon a thousand times over; he will see just how merciless I can be._

She began writing a letter to her uncle, the fury in her words spilling out like venom. At first she thought about addressing it to her father, a part of her was desperate for his guidance, just as she had been as a young girl. But an even more prominent part was terrified by the thought that he would be disappointed by her. _I promised I would not fail you, father, and I have not yet._

Arianne tied the note to the leg of a raven and sent it soaring out of one of the windows. _Put an end to it, Uncle, before we are all suffering at the price of this madness…_


End file.
